The Engines of God

by Jack McDevitt

  Hutch received an invitation and considered staying away. She was not one to be taken in by the facade of affirming life when she knew damned well what was really on everyone’s mind. It was all still too painful, too close to the bone. Maybe next year she could sit comfortably and reminisce about him, but for now all she could recall was the limp figure dangling below the shuttle.

  When the day came, however, wearing the talisman he had given her, she was there. The event’s sponsors had set up a small platform atop a low hill, and laid out a table beneath a stand of spruce trees. They filled the table with souvenirs and artifacts and photos. There were copies of Richard’s books and tablets from Pinnacle and crossbows from Quraqua and representations of the Monuments. The Academy’s seal and colors were centrally displayed.

  Refreshments were in liberal supply. People spotted old friends, and clustered in animated conversations. Hutch stood off to one side, ill at ease and dispirited. At noon, a tall man who looked like a younger Richard climbed onto the platform and waited for the crowd noise to subside.

  “Hello,” he said. “I know some of you, but not all. My name’s Dick Wald. I’m—I was—Richard’s cousin. He’d have been pleased to see how many of you came out here today. And he’d have wanted me to say thanks.” He paused, and looked over the crowd. “He often said he was happy with his life, and fortunate in his friends. We used to make a lot of ‘dead’ jokes about him. And there are so many archeologists here today that I know you’ve had to put up with them too. You know how they go, about how everybody he knows has been dead at least eight hundred years. About how he only speaks dead languages. Well, there’s a lot about death in an archeologist’s field of interest, and it seems painful that it should come eventually to the archeologist himself.” He paused, and the wind moved in the trees behind him. “I’d like to invite Bill Winfield to say a few words. Bill taught Sumerian 101 to Richard.”

  In turn, people got up and spoke about him. They thanked him for launching their careers, and for helping them with money or advice or encouragement. For setting the example. Several quoted favorite passages from his books, or idle remarks tossed off on windswept evenings:

  The difference between history and archeology is the difference between public policy and a coffee table. One is theory and analysis and sometimes even spectacle. The other is a piece of life.

  There is a kind of archeology of the mind in which we unearth old injuries and resentments, pore over them, and keep them close to our hearts. Eventually, like thousand-year-old air encountered in a tomb, they poison us. It gives me to wonder whether the value of history is not overrated.

  I have always felt a kinship with the gravediggers in Hamlet. They are the first recorded archeologists.

  History has nothing to do with reality. It is a point of view, an attempt to impose order on events that are essentially chaotic.

  And an observation from an essay on Pinnacle which Hutch wished he had himself taken seriously: The universe has a sense of humor. Two years ago, a man in Chicago was driving to his wedding when a meteor totaled his car. The prospective bridegroom took the hint and left town. When conditions prevent a prudent excavation, archeologists would do well, also, to take the hint.

  When the last of those who wished to speak had finished, Dick Wald asked if there were anyone else. Instinctively, Hutch shied away from public appearances. But she could not do that today. Not knowing what she would say, she strode to the platform, and turned to face the crowd. Many knew her, and she heard a smattering of applause.

  She groped for the right words. “I’d just like to say,” she said, “that he was always good to work for.” She paused. The sky was clear and blue and very far away. “He died doing what he believed in. He died, I think, the way he would have wanted.” She looked around desperately, and wished for divine intervention. Her mind had gone blank. Reflexively, she took hold of the talisman, and drew it out into the sunlight. “Love and prosperity,” she said. “He gave me this. Its inscription, in one of the Quraquat languages, says love and prosperity will be mine while I wear it. Actually, they were mine as long as I knew him.”

  Later, she said hello to Dick. He told her Richard had spoken of her often. Up close, his resemblance to Richard was striking. And there was a trick of speech, a tendency to draw out r’s in the manner of Bostonians, that they shared. She could have closed her eyes and believed he was back.

  The Academy was out in force. Henry showed up, an act that must have taken considerable courage because a lot of people, including Hutch, blamed him for Richard’s death. He had aged during the few months since their return. His face was gray in the dull light, and he walked uncertainly.

  “How are you?” Hutch asked, offering her hand.

  He took it, but his grasp was perfunctory. “Good,” he said. “It’s nice to see you, Hutch.” His eyes traveled between her and the speakers’ platform, which was now empty. “I would have preferred better circumstances.”

  An awkward silence followed. Hutch knew a reprimand was in the works for Henry. The whole world knew it. He had announced his retirement, and he faced the prospect of becoming the central figure in a landmark legal dispute over the issue of court jurisdiction beyond the solar system.

  “I didn’t thank you, by the way,” he said, “for everything you did.”

  “I was glad to help,” she said.

  “I wish things could have turned out better.” He was backing away from her, anxious to be gone.

  “Me, too,” she said weakly.

  Princeton

  Saturday, Nov. 27, 2202

  Dear Priscilla,

  Just a word to let you know that Cal Hartlett got married today. I know we’ve had this conversation before, and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but there’s another good one you could have had. That boy idolized you. I’ve met the bride and she’s pretty, but she isn’t in your league.

  Please think about the future. We’re not getting any younger.

  Mom

  Hutch put her feet up on the hassock, sipped her coffee, and stared out over the rock plain. She was well away from the edge this time, and Shola was off to the right. Although the gas giant dominated the sky, its light was dim. Overhead, there were no stars. She was looking directly into the Void. Look hard enough, long enough, and one could see the other side, the distant flicker of the Sagittarius Arm.

  The coffee tasted good.

  Portland, Oregon

  Monday, Nov. 29, 2202

  Dear Ms. Hutchins,

  The enclosed holo arrived here several weeks ago, before you got back from Quraqua. In fact, it came before I’d heard about Richard’s death. I haven’t been certain who to send it to, and I thought you would know. I thought somebody at the Academy might have some interest in it.

  Best wishes.

  Dick Wald

  (ENCLOSURE)

  DOWNLINK HOLD

  Leader marked “PERSONAL FOR RICHARD WALD”

  David Emory in a field office. “Richard,” he says, “It’s ironic that you would have been asking about this just a few days ago. We have found Orikon. I thought you’d like to hear what we have, but please keep it to yourself until we publish.

  “We’ve known for some time that the ruins were located under a modem city, where they were not accessible to direct investigation. Or, more accurately, I’ve known, but since we couldn’t get an actual physical piece for dating purposes, there was no way to prove anything.

  “The scanners showed a metal circumference around the ruins, with lines jutting off. Theory was that it was a defensive structure of one kind or another.” He takes a chair, and crosses his arms over his chest, quite satisfied with the direction events have taken. “This world is subject to enormous tides, because of its proximity to the Companion. There are sea walls here now, to restrain the ocean. But these structures are recent.

  “Orikon was located on a cluster of islands which are now hilltops. At low tide, they looked out over swamps. So t
he question always was: how, under such circumstances, could the inhabitants travel from one section of the city to another? This is no small feat, by the way. We are talking about islands spread over twelve hundred square kilometers. Furthermore, how did they maintain access to an ocean when they had to travel over ground that was sometimes a sea and sometimes a swamp?

  “The solution: they had a monorail. This is mountainous country, and we went looking on some of the peaks for evidence. Yesterday we found it: a piece of concrete bolted into the side of a precipice. We now have other evidence as well. They seem to have thrived between 18,000 and 16,000 B.C. So it turns out civilization is three times older here than we thought.

  “Orikon lives, Richard.”

  Henry removed the helmet. Sunlight warmed the room. Hutch looked out at the Morning Pool, the Ivers Museum, elta Park, and, in the distance, the Washington Monument.

  “Good of you to bring it by,” he said. “May I make a copy?”

  “Of course.” She waited for a sign that he agreed with her assessment of its significance.

  “Well.” He folded his arms and pushed back comfortably. “How is everything with you?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. “You seem tense.”

  “Henry, you don’t seem surprised.”

  His leathery face did not change. “What surprises you, Hutch?”

  “We’ve got a second discontinuity on Nok. Two on each world. That makes a trend.”

  Henry studied her across the broad expanse of his desk. The office was big, crowded with mementoes of his career. “You’re assuming that Orikon suffered one of these events.”

  “Of course. How else would you explain the disappearance of a civilization capable of building a monorail?”

  “We aren’t talking about established facts, Hutch. We are fully aware of events on Nok. You should be aware that Emory has a tendency to jump to conclusions. However, there is a curious coincidence. He says the most recent artifacts are from about 16,000 B.C.” He looked at her expectantly.

  She didn’t see the point.

  “The events on Quraqua,” Henry said, “were divided by eight thousand years.”

  “—And on Nok by sixteen thousand. Twice as long. But what does that suggest?”

  He shrugged. “Multiples of eight. For whatever significance that might have.” He looked old; his movements were stiff and seemed to require conscious effort.

  “Multiples of eight? Would we know if there’d been an event on Nok around 8000 B.C.?”

  “Probably not. The current cycle of civilization got started three thousand years later.” He studied the top of his desk. “I have no problems with a coincidence. One coincidence.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “The resemblance between Oz and the cube moons.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I retire,” he said. “And hope I have some money left after the lawyers get finished with me.”

  “Henry, you can’t just walk out—”

  “I sure as hell can just walk out. Listen—” His face reddened and he leaned across the desk. “Do you have any idea what all this means to me? I’m about to be drummed out. Blamed for the death of an old friend.” His lip quivered. “And God help me, maybe they’re right.”

  “But we need you.”

  “And I needed you. We went through hell out there, and I made a decision that I’m going to have to live with the rest of my life. You’re taking an accusing tone with me now. Where were you when we were trying to get a few answers? All you could contribute was to hang on the other end of that damned commlink and try to panic everybody. Did you really think we didn’t know what was coming? We went down there with our eyes open, Hutch. All of us.”

  And you didn’t all make it back. But she said nothing. He glared at her, and then the energy seemed to go out of him, and he sank back into his chair.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. “I did what I had to.”

  “As did I.”

  They looked at one another across a gulf. Finally, Hutch said, “You will follow up on this. Right?”

  “You follow up on it. If you find something, I’ll be in Chicago.”

  Henry’s anger hurt. Had the others felt the same way? My God, had Richard gone to his death disappointed in her? A cold wind blew through her soul.

  She could not go back to her apartment that night.

  She wandered among some of her old hangouts, ending eventually at the Silver Dancer, which was a favorite nightspot for airline types, and which had probably never seen an archeologist. She drank a series of rum-and-cokes that had no effect on her. Somewhere around midnight, she encouraged a shy young flight attendant with good eyes and went home with him.

  She gave him the night of his life.

  Hutch wanted to let it rest, to put it behind her. But she could not. So, on a crisp, clear evening a week after her conversation with Henry, she met Frank Carson for dinner at an Italian restaurant along the Arlington waterfront.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “Henry tends to get upset, and he’s been through a lot. He told me, by the way, that he’d talked to you.”

  Carson was a good guy. He tended to take a paternal line with her, but she could forgive that. She came very close to approving. “He resents me,” she said.

  He asked her to explain. When she’d finished, he tried to wave it away. “I did the same thing,” he said. “I was on the circuit to Henry, and I kept pushing them the whole time. It’s not to your discredit that you wanted them out of there. In your place, Henry would have done the same. He’s upset with me, too.”

  It was just after sunset. They were drinking Chianti, and watching a boat discharge passengers from Alexandria onto the dock. “What do you think?” she asked. “About the discontinuities?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t think anything’s established yet. If it turns out there was an event on Nok eighteen or twenty thousand years ago, I still don’t think it would mean very much.”

  “What about ‘the engines of God’?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “‘He will come who treads the dawn, Tramples the sun beneath his feet, And judges the souls of men. He will stride across the rooftops, And he will fire the engines of God.’ It’s from a Quraquat prayer book. Art thought it might have been a prediction of the Second Discontinuity on Quraqua. The timing was right.”

  “There are always predictions,” he said.

  Their dinners arrived, spaghetti and meatballs for both.

  “Feel better?” Carson asked, after she’d made inroads.

  “Yes,” she said. “I guess so.”

  “Good. I’ve got some news for you: we’ve tracked down the horgon.”

  She looked up from her plate, delighted. “Good,” she said. “What have you got?”

  “Well, it’s kind of interesting. You know the thing was a mythical monster. It was all claws and teeth, it had fiery eyes, it was armored, and it stood on two feet. It had a built-in flame thrower.” He paused. “And it could see three hundred sixty degrees.”

  Hutch did a double take. “The horgon’s eye,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” Delighted, Carson drew out the aspirate. “That’s what we thought. The beast is associated with the child-hero Malinar, and with Urik, who was a kind of Quraquat Hercules. Malinar rescued his sister when she was threatened by the creature by diverting its attention with a plate of food. The thing pitied the child and spared him. And the girl. We know there was a cycle of Malinar myths, but the horgon story is the only one we have.

  “Urik is perhaps the best known of all Quraquat mythical figures. The important point is that he would certainly have been known to the Quraquat of the Linear C era.”

  “So we get a fit,” said Hutch.

  “Yes.” He speared a meatball and tasted it. “Good,” he said. “Anyway, Urik lived at the beginning of their civilization, in a world filled with e
nchantment and dark spells and divine retribution for anyone who got out of line. Only one god in this scenario, the usual male deity, with the standard short temper and no-nonsense code of conduct. Monotheistic systems, by the way, were common on Quraqua during that period. There is residual evidence of polytheistic religions, but over thousands of years the original tales must have been rewritten to reflect correct views. And there’s another universal tendency.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Monotheistic religious systems are usually intolerant.” He smiled warmly at her, and his tone softened. “This is actually quite nice,” he said. “Having dinner with the loveliest woman in Arlington, Virginia.”

  Appreciative, Hutch reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

  Back to business, he said: “Somebody was having trouble with a horgon. It was terrorizing the countryside and generally raising hell. So they called in Urik.”

  “Okay.”

  “The only way to kill it was to put a sword into its heart.”

  “Seems straightforward,” said Hutch.

  “It’s an old story,” he said. “Hermes and Argos.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Greek myth. It’s a hunter’s tale. You are trying to bring down the ultimate prey, a creature that’s exceedingly deadly, and you can’t hide in the bushes. And you can’t take it head-on. So you have to devise a trick.

  “In the Urik story, a series of heroes, over the course of a generation or so, have tried to kill the monster. They used all sorts of imaginative schemes to get close to it. They tried to blind it with sunlight reflected from a polished shield; they tried to sneak up on it disguised as a female horgon; they tried to put it to sleep with a magic trombone.”

  Hutch smiled. “A magic trombone?”

  “Well, not really. But it was a mystical instrument, a pipe of some sort. In any case, things always went wrong. The hero put the pipe down to get a good grip on his sword, the horgon woke up, and the hero got barbecued. That was the technique that Hermes used, by the way. It worked for him.